


Taken

by lostonthisisland



Category: Green Day
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Kidnapping, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-16
Updated: 2008-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostonthisisland/pseuds/lostonthisisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billie Joe is Taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey Armstrong!”  
  
  
  
The band’s front man turned around in time to see a small group of people disappear into the bar’s back alley, but not before ushering him to follow.  
  
  
  
Billie Joe blinked at the door as it swung shut and contemplated leaving the bar to go outside with a couple of strangers. He swayed as he raised his glass to take another sip of the beer in its depths. It was at this particular early hour of the morning…or late hour of the night that he had consumed enough alcohol that it was decided his drink never left his hand, even when he had to take a piss. It was also at this hour, that an ample amount of beer was changing rational thoughts to irrational thoughts, in which Billie concluded that these friendly strangers only wanted an autograph…in the back alley of the bar.  
  
  
  
Tossing back the rest of the amber liquid, Billie made a drunken bee line for the door. As soon as he stepped out into the alley his head exploded into blood boiling pain.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
“Man, where the hell is BJ? I’m ready to blow this joint like a fucking...what’s something you blow?”  
  
  
  
Tré bounced his knee as his eyes scanned the room for BJ and he replied to his friend without much thought. “A dick.”  
  
  
  
Mike threw his head back and laughed hysterically.  
  
  
  
“I think Mikey’s had about one too many beers.” He grabbed for Mike’s drink and it was pulled out of reach.  
  
  
  
“Hey man! Get your own.” The drunken bassist drained his beer and slammed the empty bottle on the table and the sound was accompanied with a loud belch. “Where the fuck ‘s Billie?! I’m gonna be sick. Does he know I’m gonna be sick?”  
  
  
  
“I don’t know, I swear he went to take a piss like an hour ago.” Tré pushed himself away from the table and eyed his friend suspiciously. “You gonna be alright while I’m gone?”  
  
  
  
Mike’s blue eyes widened at the drummer, “Where r’you goin’?”  
  
  
  
Tré rolled his own eyes, “To find Billie! Jesus, I can’t believe I’m the freakin’ sober one tonight.”   
  
  
  
Mike watched his friend go and tried to remember why the fuck you’re not supposed to eat from the bowl of nuts in the center of the table. His concentration on the matter eventually slipped and he popped a few in his mouth beginning to wonder where exactly the hell nuts came from anyway.   
  
  
  
It was somewhere in the mist of his internal disquisition about nuts and their importance in human life that Tré had broken through the crowd of people and found their table again.  
  
  
  
Mike’s brows furrowed as he stared up at Tré quizzically…was something missing?  
  
  
  
“I can’t find ‘em, must’ve left without us.” Tré spoke to Mike matter of fact like.  
  
  
  
It took him a moment to clear the drunken haze long enough but finally he got it, “Billie!” Billie was missing.  
  
  
  
“Yeah, Billie.” Tré leaned down to help his friend stand.  
  
  
  
“He left us?”  
  
  
  
“Yeah, I tried his phone, must’ve shut it off.”  
  
  
  
Somewhere in the back of Mike’s brain; the sober, rational part of Mike’s brain, an alarm went off, but was smothered to silence with the overpowering bliss of intoxication.  
  
  
  
Mike leaned on his friend all the way to the car where he was dumped in the backseat. Before he knew it he was drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
It was the pain in his head that woke him up first. Billie Joe groaned when it grew stronger with his waking body. It was agonizing, like shards of glass embedded deep in his skull.  
  
  
  
The hangover was bad, he knew what that felt like, but it was something else that was causing this amount of hurt, something worse.  
  
  
  
He inhaled deeply in attempt to clear his mind of the fog that unconsciousness left and stopped when the sharp smell of gasoline and rubber deepened the pain of his headache.  
  
  
  
Confusion settled in somewhere through the haze of left over dreamscapes and he tried to open his eyes but blamed it on being too tired when he couldn’t.  
  
  
  
He worked his mouth instead and grew more confused when he found his tongue felt dry and swollen against his pallet.  
  
  
  
Confusion deepened into panic when eyes still wouldn’t open and when his brain told his hands to move and feel what was wrong and they wouldn’t move either.  
  
  
  
Alarm spread fast and his arms and legs only struggled to find they were bound together smugly.  
  
  
  
It was about then memory came flooding back to the night at the bar. They were celebrating the release of their new album, him and the guys, he had left to use the bathroom…and there was that group of kids.  
  
  
  
Billie’s thoughts stopped when he heard muffled voices somewhere outside and car doors slamming. It was then he understood he was in the trunk of a car.  
  
  
  
He bit down on the cloth between his teeth and involuntarily shuddered when he felt the car lurch into motion.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Link smiled when he heard the final price on the other end of the line.   
  
  
  
“I’d say that’s a decent amount, where’s the drop off going to be?"  
  
  
  
He wrote down directions and thanked the man on the other line before snapping his cell phone shut.  
  
  
  
“Tammy?”   
  
  
  
“Yeah?” The blonde came to his side and raised her eyebrows in question.  
  
  
  
“Get some water for him.”   
  
  
  
She nodded and went into the gas station’s store front.  
  
  
  
“Diedrich, open the trunk.” He stomped out his cigarette and blew a billow of smoke through his nostrils as he rounded the car.  
  
  
  
The trunk clicked open and he watched as the small, bound man inside tried to scuttle as far back as he could to get away from them.  
  
  
  
Link reached in and grabbed the singer’s shirt collar to pull him forward. The action was met with a series of muffled curses. Leaning in he crushed the man’s jaw in his grip, eliciting a pained groan.  
  
  
  
He took a switchblade out of his jacket with his free hand and pressed the tip lightly over the blind fold where the singer’s right eye was located. “Make another sound and I’ll gouge it out.” He threatened in a low snarl.  
  
  
  
The body beneath his hands stilled.  
  
  
  
As Tammy returned with water he pulled the gag out of the front man’s mouth.  
  
  
  
Link uncapped the water and lifted the singer’s head before touching the open bottle to his lips. “Drink this.”  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Billie shook his head in protest and felt the bottle press against his mouth harder.  
  
  
  
“Drink it!”  
  
  
  
He shook his head again and this time he felt water flood onto his face and up his nose.  
  
  
  
He choked on the liquid and his reflexes made him open his mouth and start coughing at the unpleasant intruder.  
  
  
  
Immediately the bottle was shoved to his lips and water gushed down his throat. He tried to spit it out but hands came and closed over his mouth and clamped his jaw shut.  
  
  
  
He reeled his head back with a muffled cry when his tongue was caught between his teeth.  
  
  
  
More hands stilled him and he had no choice but to swallow what he could. As soon as he did all the hands disappeared and he curled in on himself coughing up water and blood.  
  
  
  
When the hacking subsided the cloth was forced between his teeth once more and tied tightly around his head.  
  
  
  
Someone shoved him back further in the trunk and he jumped when the hood slammed shut and left his ears ringing.  
  
  
  
Billie Joe laid there in the darkness and hoped someone would find him soon.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
When Mike woke up it was already noon. He sat up and begrudgingly scrubbed at his face. His head was pounding and he felt the desperate need to fill his stomach with unceremonious amounts of coffee, black and scolding.  
  
  
  
He made his way to the small kitchen of the house they were staying at and saw Tré filling out a crossword puzzle from yesterday’s paper.  
  
  
  
“What’s a ten letter word for ‘one who is illiterate’?”  
  
  
  
Mike spotted the coffee pot and grabbed a mug, pouring the steaming liquid into it and met his friend’s eyes. “George Bush?”  
  
  
  
Tré let out an amused chortle and shook his head. “It starts with a ‘u’.”  
  
  
  
Mike shrugged and sat down across from the drummer, slowly sipping his coffee.  
  
  
  
A knock on the door caught their attention as Jason let himself in. “Hey you guys, just so you know we’re leaving at two. We have to be in New York by nine.” He looked around the kitchen and adjoining living room. “Is BJ up?”  
  
  
  
Tré dropped his head back to yell up to the second floor. “Hey Billeh! Billeh Joe!” Mike threw his hands over his ears vehemently.  
  
  
  
When there was no answer Tré pushed himself out of his chair and climbed the stairs two at a time. He made his way to where Billie was staying and knocked twice before swinging the door open.


	3. Chapter 3

He was close to dozing off when the car finally stopped. It was hard to tell how long they’d been driving with no sense of time but it felt like hours.  
  
  
  
He heard the car doors slamming shut and the voices of his captors outside.   
  
  
  
Before he had time to even think about what was going to happen the trunk swung open and fresh air blew in and cooled the sweat on his face and neck.  
  
  
  
“Come on, rock star. Let’s go.”   
  
  
  
Billie tensed when he felt a set of hands lifting him and pulling him onto his feet.  
  
  
  
Arms wrapped around his chest and he felt his back being pulled to a man’s torso as someone untied the ropes around his ankles.  
  
  
  
Hope flared in his heart when his legs became mobile but it was quickly extinguished when he felt the sharp twinge of a blade pressing under his jaw.  
  
  
  
“Don’t even think about it.” Hot breath steamed behind his ear and he grit his teeth on the gag angrily.  
  
  
  
The arms around his chest left him and seized his arms at his back instead.  
  
  
  
“Move!” The command was punctuated by a kick to the shins and he obeyed, moving forward into the darkness his blindfold provided.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Mike sat at Officer Kaplan’s desk and awaited his return. It’d been three hours since they’d told Kaplan of their missing band mate and they had talked to a handful of people including three detectives, Lieutenant Mason, the Deputy Chief of Police, their lawyers, a few officers including Kaplan and the Chief of Police, Ames Donavon.   
  
  
  
Him and Tré and some of the other guys in the band had all told what they knew of the night before, but since Mike and Tré had stayed late with Billie and were the last to have seen him they were held longer for more questioning.  
  
  
  
Kaplan had said that finding the person or persons responsible would be like finding a needle in a haystack since they had no full and confirmed list of who was at the bar last night. All they had was a list of names the bartender had told them were regulars.  
  
  
  
And it hadn’t taken long for the reporters to show up either. Lawson, the Deputy Chief of Police had said that the coverage would be good and would increase Billie’s chance of being found,  _or hinder it_  Mike had thought gravely.  
  
  
  
What would happen if the press scared whoever took Billie off? Or if the kidnapper was some sick asshole who wanted to use the reporters to get Billie hurt, or…  
  
  
  
Mike shook his head bitterly, scolding himself for panicking. He had to stay calm if he wanted to help find his best friend.  
  
  
  
They had also contacted Billie Joe’s family and told Adrienne to stay in touch for any updates. She had requested to be flown in but he had advised her to stay with Jakob and Joey for their own safety. God knows they didn’t want Billie’s captor coming after her and the kids too.  
  
  
  
He absently fiddled with a stapler on Kaplan’s desk and thought how the Officer had told him they weren’t even a hundred percent sure Billie was taken at all, but Mike had protested saying they had no other direction to turn to. An abduction seemed the only liable explanation.   
  
  
  
The stapler fell from Mike’s hands and clattered to the ground as Kaplan entered the office. A burst of noise from the filled precinct followed before the door was shut and the clamor was muted to incoherent buzz again.  
  
  
  
Mike bent to pick up the stapler, “Sorry…I was just…um…” His hands fumbled as much as his words when he placed the object back on the desk. He shifted uncomfortably before raising his eyes to meet Kaplan’s. “Anything?” He asked hopefully.  
  
  
  
Kaplan sighed and shook his head.  
  
  
  
Mike felt his stomach drop and lowered himself back into the office chair to subdue the nausea.  
  
  
  
“A lot of the reporter’s out there are asking for an interview with you and Tré and the other guys…”  
  
  
  
Mike reached Kaplan’s eyes once more.  
  
  
  
“I told them you’re not ready.”  
  
  
  
He let out a breath and nodded to the floor. “Thanks.” The bassist said quietly.  
  
  
  
Kaplan sat down across from his desk and folded his hands in his lap. “You know, we’ll find him.” He watched the bassist’s jaw twitch as he concentrated on the office floor’s carpeting. “Just wait, we’ll find him.”  
  
  
  
He offered a hopeful smile that he knew Mike couldn’t see and they sat in silence listening to the muffled noise outside the door.


	4. Chapter 4

The man stepped out of his truck and grinned at what he saw. Hefting the large briefcase, he sauntered over to the kids and the man they held prisoner.  
  
  
  
He could tell it was him, the bound man before him. There was no mistaking the valiant musician.  
  
  
  
“Here.” Without taking his eyes off the lead singer, the man handed over the briefcase.  
  
  
  
Link snatched it greedily and set it on the hood of his car, trying to figure out how the fancy gold locks worked to get the damned thing open.  
  
  
  
“Put him in my truck.”   
  
  
  
Link’s friends began reaching for Billie and he called out to them to halt their movements.   
  
  
  
“Wait!” He snapped the last lock open on the briefcase and revealed the cash inside. “Just wait.”  
  
  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s all in there.”  
  
  
  
Link turned to look at the man suspiciously, his hand laid protectively on the stacks of paper inside.  
  
  
  
“Then you won’t care if I check before you take off?”  
  
  
  
The man gestured toward the briefcase, “By all means.”  
  
  
  
Link smiled devilishly and began flipping through the stacks with rapture.  
  
  
  
The man sighed irritably and crossed his arms, “See? Now, would you like me to leave you two alone?”  
  
  
  
Link dropped the money he was holding and slammed the briefcase shut, turning to give the man a heated glare.  
  
  
  
He took hold of the case and slid it off the hood before strolling over to shake the man’s hand.   
  
  
  
“Nice doing business with you, and thank you,” He raised the silver case in his left hand, “for this.”  
  
  
  
“No, thank you.” The man gave him the most diabolical snigger that it turned Link’s blood cold.  
  
  
  
His voice pitched when he spoke again, the man’s steely eyes no doubt unnerving him, “Diedrich, Justin, put him in the truck.”  
  
  
  
The two young men began to lead the front man to the truck when he dropped to his knees, snarling at them and becoming dead weight.  
  
  
  
Link walked briskly over and backhanded him hard, “Get up!”   
  
  
  
The guitarist spit out something along the lines of “uck ew, ah-hoe” behind the gag.  
  
  
  
Link kicked him over on his back and Diedrich and Justin proceeded to carry him into the back of the truck and retie his ankles.  
  
  
  
The man who had just bought Billie Joe Armstrong nodded to the group of kids as they turned to leave and got behind the wheel of his own truck.  
  
  
  
He revved the engine and turned in his seat, “Well, it looks like it’s just you and me now.”   
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Billie shuddered when the man gave a cynical laugh and he writhed against his bonds. His shoulders were killing him from having his arms tied snug behind him. Not to mention having to lie on his side awkwardly and crushing the same shoulder beneath him every time.  
  
  
  
He was shifting uncomfortably after being placed to lean on said shoulder when big calloused hands yanked his head up so fast he felt and heard his neck crack.   
  
  
  
Billie flinched when he felt a needle pierce his skin and drive deep into a spot under his jaw line.  
  
  
  
When the needle and hands were gone he could still feel their phantom touch on his skin, he pondered this briefly before slipping into unconsciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

He stopped the truck and glanced in the rearview mirror. He smiled at what he saw there. Eleven years he had waited, failing twice and now Armstrong was finally his. And he would break him, as he had broken others previously.   
  
  
  
Though he was no fool, he knew it would not be easy. And he knew how stubborn and strong-spirited the singer was, teaching the lifelong lesson, don’t let people control you.   
  
  
  
But that was exactly what the man wanted to do, control Armstrong. It would be hard, yes, but he also knew Armstrong’s weakness. That being a faithful husband and a loving father meant more to him than anything else, and it wouldn’t be too hard to use that bit of information against him.  
  
  
  
He got out of the truck and opened the backseat door.  
  
  
  
Now that he finally achieved his long anticipated prize he had to worry about someone trying to take it away from him. However, when he laid his eyes upon the small man’s still form he couldn’t help thinking arrogantly about losing him now that he was in his possession.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Mike paced his room wildly. They were back at the house, the people they were renting it out from said it was alright they stay there as long as they needed.   
  
  
  
Kaplan had told them to get some rest. Both Mike and Tré and some of the other guys associated with the band had been following Kaplan and his team around for the past forty-eight hours.  
  
  
  
So far, they’d found nothing. They had questioned everyone on the list the bartender had given them, save one who was out of town.   
  
  
  
Mike had lost his temper telling the detectives off when they’d decided on waiting an extra day for the suspect to return home. They’d said no one had given them information on the suspects whereabouts and that a Mr. Walker wasn’t high on the top priority list because he was crippled or old or something, Mike was too busy yelling to pay attention.  
  
  
  
So right now the cops were verifying all the statements and looking for leads while Mike sat on his fucking ass.  
  
  
  
God, he felt like he needed to do something, he couldn’t just sit around and wait. He’d already called Adie three times to talk and he’d tried to sleep but had only lasted an hour.  
  
  
  
He mentally chastised himself for getting so hammered that night. If he had been thinking straight he would have noticed his friend’s absence sooner. He could have caught him in time, he could have done something. It was hard not to blame himself with all the ‘what if’s and ‘could have’s running through his mind.  
  
  
  
It was then that Tré knocked on his open door and broke his stream of incriminating thoughts.  
  
  
  
“Hey…um…” He watched the drummer as he nervously ran a hand through unruly hair. “Are you…is everything…?” Tré cursed and dropped his eyes and suddenly Mike knew what to do.  
  
  
  
Silently, he made his way over to his friend and embraced him with his arms, biting back tears of his own as he felt Tré shudder against him.  
  
  
  
When Mike pulled back he saw tears in his friend’s eyes.  
  
  
  
“He’s gonna be OK, right? Mike, he’s gonna be OK?” His voice was strained.  
  
  
  
“Yeah, he’s going to be fine.” Mike was surprised how much his own voice wavered and tried to clear his throat. “We’re gonna get him back, just wait and you’ll see.”


	6. Chapter 6

It sucked waking up. He dreaded it now because every time he did it was dark and he was alone and tied up in some fashion. He was also always afraid.   
  
  
  
The blind fold and gag were absent, but now his restraints felt cold and heavy. He moved his legs to hear the loud clatter of metal on cement and stilled, frightened by the loud noise and the echo it created.  
  
  
  
 _Come on, Billie. Keep it together, man._  He thought silently to himself. Now was not the time to have a panic attack, well actually, given the circumstances, it was a perfect time. But, he couldn’t afford to fall apart now and not here, with no one to catch him.  
  
  
  
He could only remember one time it had ever really gotten that bad. He was seventeen and no one was around, he’d passed out after hyperventilating. He woke up later in the hospital to the worried faces of his mother and his best friend.  
  
  
  
Billie’s chest began to seize at the thought of reliving that moment here in the darkness, shackled and completely alone. So he thought of Adie and he thought of Mike and his friends and children.   
  
  
  
The thoughts stopped at Mike and he remembered how his friend helped him through it in the old days. He would sing, sitting next to him on the floor, his hand rubbing his back. And soon Billie could breath enough to follow along with whatever words Mike chose.  
  
  
  
So he did that now, he followed along to the memory of Mike next to him and slowly the weight on his chest began to lift and he felt a warm calm surround him. Soon he began to sing softly himself, his voice shaky at first, but then it eventually smoothed out and he spent the next few hours focusing on the lyrics.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Mike drove as fast as he could to the police station. Kaplan said they’d gotten something but he wouldn’t tell him what until he got there. He was dying to know what it was, anything to get them closer to finding Billie.  
  
  
  
“Mike!”  
  
  
  
His attention snapped back to the road and he swung the car left, narrowly avoiding the SUV pulling out of its driveway.  
  
  
  
“Jesus! Slow down! We’re no good to him dead.”  
  
  
  
Mike glanced over to see Tré leaning forward, tense in his seat, bracing his hands on the dashboard.  
  
  
  
He slowed down and muttered an apology.  
  
  
  
Tré visibly relaxed and regarded his friend, “It’s OK, man. It’s just, Billie would kill us if we had decided to spill our brains out all over Main Street instead of spending every second of our day looking for his sorry ass.”  
  
  
  
Mike almost felt hurt by his friend’s words until he looked over to see the drummer offer a joking smile. He smiled back weakly and threw his attention back to the road. He could see the precinct’s building just up ahead.   
  
  
  
“You’re right, man.”  
  
  
  
As soon as they parked Mike ran in so fast he forgot to shut the driver’s side door. He heard Tré running to catch up behind him and the second he stepped into the precinct Mike was yelling for Kaplan.  
  
  
  
“Mike! Tré! In here.” Kaplan ushered them into a small office with not much inside but a couch, a few chairs and a table. Detective Wallace and Rutkowski were seated on the couch.  
  
  
  
The second Kaplan shut the door behind him the air grew tense and Mike looked nervously at one face to another.  
  
  
  
That’s when Kaplan regarded the laptop on the table Mike hadn’t even noticed was there.  
  
  
  
“We got this about an hour ago,” Kaplan paused, choosing his words carefully, “We aren’t sure what his captor is trying to do, whether he’s trying to get a rise out of us or-”   
  
  
  
“What is it? What’s on that computer?” Mike tried to step around the table to the detectives and see what it was they were looking at but Kaplan caught his arm.  
  
  
  
“Just…” Kaplan struggled with some choice words before settling on, “Stay calm.”  
  
  
  
Mike ripped out of his grip and rounded the table with Tré following close behind.  
  
  
  
On the computer’s screen was some kind of video, it was dark and gritty. The feed flickered a few times before Mike could comprehend what he was seeing.  
  
  
  
It was Billie.  
  
  
  
His heart jolted through his body and his breath stopped in his throat. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t even drawing in any air until he felt Tré shaking him out of his shock.  
  
  
  
“Mike? Hey, you OK? Mike?”  
  
  
  
“It-It’s Billie…” The only thing he could get himself to say.  
  
  
  
“I know.” Tré was transfixed on the video as much as he was.  
  
  
  
The feed was dark, it was in night shot and had a nuance of green to it. He could make out his friend laying down on his back, his hands held together by thick, metal cuffs, resting on his stomach.  
  
  
  
Suddenly, Billie’s head whipped to face the camera, his eyes wide and glowing white like a cat’s in the moonlight.  
  
  
  
“Is this now?” Mike barely heard the words leave his mouth as he watched his friend’s terrified face.  
  
  
  
“What?” Kaplan.  
  
  
  
“Is this now?” He all but screamed, tearing his eyes from the screen.  
  
  
  
“Yeah, give or take a few minutes.”  
  
  
  
“Can’t you, like, trace it? Find out where this is coming from?” It was Tré speaking.  
  
  
  
“We’ve tried, but whoever this is,” Kaplan waved a hand to the computer, “Whoever’s doing this, they’re good.”  
  
  
  
“It came back with about two-hundred different locations.” Detective Wallace spoke.  
  
  
  
“Well, search them all then!” Mike was back to watching the monitor.  
  
  
  
“We are, but it will take a long time, we have to be patient.”  
  
  
  
Mike grit his teeth, he was angry, he was fuming, he wanted to find the motherfucker that took Billie and kill him with his own bare hands. He wanted to make him suffer and wish to God that he’d never been born in the first place.


	7. Chapter 7

Billie Joe’s captor paced the room thinking his sadistic thoughts out loud.  
  
  
  
“I’ll show them, I’ll let them all know not to mess with me. They are all going to learn who I am and I will become a legend!” He grinned madly, imagining the tapes of the defeated band member being shown on the news and the rising fame of the man who brought him down.  
  
  
  
“They’ll all be so jealous.”   
  
  
  
He picked up a bowie knife on his way to the cellar door and unlocked it quietly. He smiled at the sound of metal clanking on the cold floor as he descended the stairs.  
  
  
  
The sight of such an inspirational icon, weak and defenseless at his disposal, gave him an overwhelming sense of power.  
  
  
  
“You sick fuck.” The guitarist panted.  
  
  
  
He watched the man try to crawl away from him and stopped in momentary amusement.   
  
  
  
“What-What the hell is wrong with you?”  
  
  
  
He stepped closer to the man on the ground and laughed when the chains that held his legs together drew taut from where they were cemented into the floor.  
  
  
  
He crouched down and looked into the camera he knew lay present in the darkness and waved. He pulled on his ski mask, making sure it was secured tightly around his neck; he was fully covered in black, not an inch of him showed, save his eyes.  
  
  
  
Standing, he made his way over to the front man.  
  
  
  
“You’ll be mine.”   
  
  
  
He savored the frightened look Armstrong gave him and got to work.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
“You piece of shit! I’m gonna slit your fucking throat, you goddamn sick fuck!”  
  
  
  
Tré ran into Kaplan’s office where the laptop, and Mike, were currently being kept.  
  
  
  
Mike’s eyes were glued to the screen and it took Tré a moment to realize why his friend’s face looked all wet and glossy. He was crying.  
  
  
  
“Mike, what’s wrong?” The way he was staring at that screen made his heart drop in his stomach. Tré wasted no time making his way around the desk to see what was happening on that damned laptop.  
  
  
  
He was sorry he did.  
  
  
  
“I’m gonna kill him.” Mike growled out next to him, angrily scrubbing away tears that blurred his vision.  
  
  
  
Tré forced himself away from the monitor. He mumbled something weakly about finding Kaplan before stumbling out of the office and calling for the cop.  
  
  
  
He found Ames Donavon, Chief of Police, instead.  
  
  
  
“Ames.” He choked out the name breathlessly, his stomach was beginning to churn uncomfortably. “I don’t know what to do. He’s-He’s-” Tré swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat as the image came back to him.  
  
  
  
“What? What’s going on?”  
  
  
  
“He’s…He’s fucking  _skinning_  him.”  
  
  
  
“What?” Ames’ mouth dropped as he spun around and headed for Kaplan’s office.  
  
  
  
They were back behind the desk again and Tré quickly looked away before he knew what he was doing.   
  
  
  
Two other men Tré recognized from Kaplan’s team had followed them in and were studying the tape, somehow managing to fit themselves around an unyielding Mike.  
  
  
  
“Can we get anything from this?” Ames spoke to one of them.  
  
  
  
He was shaking his head. “I don’t know, sir. We’ll see what we can do.”  
  
  
  
Donavon led Tré out of the office and spoke to two officers just outside the door.  
  
  
  
“Remove Mr. Dirnt, please.”  
  
  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
  
  
Tré winced a moment later when he heard the shouts, that eventually led to the fight, break out between his friend and the officers. He turned away when he saw the cops emerge with a very unwilling and a very unhappy Mike Dirnt and drag him outside.  
  
  
  
Donavon sighed, shaking his head. “He’s taking this so hard…”  
  
  
  
Tré nodded dully.  
  
  
  
“Do you have any idea…Why he would do something like that?” The drummer understood Donavon wasn’t talking about Mike anymore and shook his head. _Because he’s a sick freak_ , was all he could think of.  
  
  
  
Donavon sighed again and patted Tré on the shoulder, “Well, don’t you worry, we’ll find him. We’ll get Mr. Armstrong back. Alive.”  
  
  
  
Tré nodded again and watched the man turn in the direction Mike was taken.   
  
  
  
He was so sick of people telling him everything would be OK, it had been said so much to him in the past twenty-four hours that it had lost its meaning. He honestly didn’t think they’d ever get Billie back.


	8. Chapter 8

Billie groaned loudly the next time he woke. It was still dark, his hands were free, albeit his ankles were still shackled together and chained into the floor, and every inch of him felt like it was on fire in some way or another.  
  
  
  
He must have passed out from the pain, his shoulder felt like it had been scrubbed by sandpaper and then doused in acid. The fucker said he didn’t want any markings on his body that weren’t put there by him and tried to skin his goddamn tattoos off.  
  
  
  
There was a large white bandage, now turning red, on his shoulder. Billie grit his teeth and tried not to think about the scar it would probably leave.  
  
  
  
Instead, his thoughts shifted back to the amount of pain he was currently feeling. His head was still throbbing from when those kids had first knocked him out all those nights ago, it felt like weeks, which he knew couldn’t be true. His shoulder really fucking hurt, his throat was raw and aching from screaming at that bastard for cutting him, his stomach was cramped from hunger, his mouth dry from thirst, his wrists and ankles were chaffing, his back was sore and he really, really, really had to pee.  
  
  
  
Suddenly, something beeped and whirred in the darkness. He whipped his head to the left, trying to see whatever the hell kept making that noise. He heard it every couple of hours and it was driving him mad. His mind would get carried away, making him think the worst possible things were out there waiting in the dark, and he’d cuss at himself for having such a vivid imagination.  
  
  
  
Then it blinked. Something he’d failed to notice before. A bright red laser-like light had shown from the dark and Billie rubbed at his eyes, blinking away the bright ghosts it had left to haunt the back of his eyelids.  
  
  
  
When his vision had cleared and adjusted back to the black abyss around him an idea struck him and Billie let his hand wander the ground beneath him. He was feeling for anything he could hold onto until his fingers brushed against a small pile of powdery gravel where the wall was crumbling. He dug his fingers in and began clawing at the concrete until pieces were falling in his hand.  
  
  
  
He worked slowly, carefully, trying to break off a piece large enough. The hours slipped by and he’d managed to get three large enough stones for what he needed and then he stopped and listened, waiting.  
  
  
  
Rocks poised in his hands, Billie sat up, ready for it.  
  
  
  
Then it happened. The beep and the whirring, and in a few seconds the light blinked and gave away its hiding spot and Billie chucked a stone at it, silently cursing when he heard the echo his weapon created as it hit the far wall.   
  
  
  
Quickly, he picked up another rock and threw it in the direction he saw that light ghosting on his eyes.  
  
  
  
A crack, as his rock made contact. Then a creaking, followed by a loud crash that made the guitarist jump out of his skin.  
  
  
  
But as soon as it was quiet again he smiled because he knew it would stay that way.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
He threw down the bloody knife angrily,  _this isn’t going to work_. His calloused fingers picked up a nearby rag and he absent mindedly wiped his hands on it.   
  
  
  
A goddamn knife wasn’t going to get the job done. Although, he knew that, didn’t he? He had just wanted to give the singer pain, and, god, how he had relished in the sound of his screaming. A voice that was usually used so beautifully, twisted into a sound so awful it was animalistic.  
  
  
  
He threw down the rag when it was obvious the blood would not come off and stepped to the rusted sink instead.  
  
  
  
All those damn tattoos. He hated them. They were markings proving that his body belonged to himself.   
  
  
  
That was a lie now. Billie was  _his_. Body and mind, he had rightfully paid for both, fair and square. He was going to give him a new life, he was going to give him new memories and erase the old ones.   
  
  
  
But how could he if he still had his past life on his skin? How was he supposed to make him forget the people that had given him hope if he still had their names engraved on his arms?  
  
  
  
He wandered over to his pile of tools. They were all old, used and dirtied. Covered in dark shades of growing rust and dried up blood. Each one chipped or cracked; blades dulled and screws loose.   
  
  
  
He picked up an old belt sander and ran his fingers down the fine grit sand paper. This could work.   
  
  
  
Unwinding the long power cord he searched the room for an outlet quickly before plugging it in. Switching it on his smile grew as the motor whined loudly in the quiet room, but his mood dropped when he heard the wheels began to rattle and something grind and click in the machine. Soon the motor came to a stop, releasing an airy shudder as if to surrender.  
  
  
  
A growl escaped his throat as he slammed the machine down, rattling the floor boards beneath him, causing sparks to fly and snap around him as the cord was yanked from the wall.  
  
  
  
He sighed and turned to leave his tools in the dark. He’d think of something better tomorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

Tré listened contently to the obnoxious ringing in his ear that the blood flow to his head was currently creating.  
  
  
  
It wasn’t so bad, the heavy pain in his face. It was better to be thinking about how his head felt like it was about to explode rather than thinking about…well, what everyone else was thinking about. What he  _should_  be thinking about. But his own selfish wishes not to go insane with depression and anger had helped keep the guilt at bay.  
  
  
  
Unfortunately, Mike wasn’t so lucky.  
  
  
  
Said bassist was currently unconscious in the next room, no thanks to a little Valium running through his system. This whole incident had taken its toll on both Mike’s mind and body, so Tré had taken action into getting his friend to sleep before the inevitable happened, before he crashed.  
  
  
  
With every passing minute hope dwindled in the drummer’s mind and he began praying to the ‘powers that be’ that Mike would be OK and get out of this mess alive if the worst happened. Which seemed likely to happen now. Tré prayed he wouldn’t have to suffer the loss of two friends and that he wouldn’t be left alone.   
  
  
  
He didn’t think he could handle being left alone.   
  
  
  
And that only made him afraid  _he_  wouldn’t be strong enough to survive either, and what if someone else just followed? What if the cycle never ended? What if it spread like a disease?  
  
  
  
Tré shook his head, clearing all the thoughts. Those questions couldn’t bother him now. Not with nothing but this intense pressure of his own blood building in his cheeks to think about.  
  
  
  
But, sadly, Tré Cool knew that this topsy-turvy view of the world he’d created could only last so long before reality came crashing back with a merciless force.  
  
  
  
He sighed and slowly picked himself up from his half sprawled, upside down position on the couch and ground the heels of his palms into his eyes as his blood crashed back down through his body leaving his head empty and nauseous.  
  
  
  
It was then Tré heard the phone ring before him on the coffee table and he had to blink away the dots that had formed in his vision before answering it.  
  
  
  
“Hello?”  
  
  
  
“Who is this? Tré?”  
  
  
  
“Yeah, Kaplan?”  
  
  
  
“Yeah, listen. I’ve got good news.”  
  
  
  
Tré sat up and tightened his grip on the receiver. “Good news? H-how good are we talkin’?” He stuttered.  
  
  
  
“Real good.”  
  
  
  
Tré’s heart pumped as he heard the smile in Kaplan’s voice.  
  
  
  
“Some kids in the next town got into some big fight with each other, trashed a gas station in all their commotion. Turns out, local police officers had gone there themselves to pick up some things, caught the kids just in time. Here’s the kicker, they found a briefcase full of money on them.” Kaplan paused, “A  _lot_  of money.”  
  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tré interrupted and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Why is this good news exactly?”  
  
  
  
“Because,” Kaplan drawled, “after interrogating those kids individually about where they got the money one of ‘em got scared and confessed. Said they got it when they kidnapped your band mate the night at the bar.”  
  
  
  
“Billie! You found him? Have you found him?” The rush of words escaped the drummer’s lips without thought.  
  
  
  
“Not yet. After taking the kids into custody we got a description of the guy they…sold…him to.”  
  
  
  
There’s a long pause on the line before Tré finally hears what’s being said and the words slowly start to sink in.  
  
  
  
“Wait-What?” He chokes on the words, his mouth drying and tongue a dead weight against his pallet. He coughs a few times before he’s able to speak again. “ _Sold_  him? What does that mean?”  
  
  
  
“Yeah…it’s sick, but we got a description of the guy’s pick-up truck too, even a letter or two on the license plate. We’ve got people running the information through the computer for a match right now.”  
  
  
  
Tré nodded vigorously, absorbing every word Kaplan spoke. “So, we’re close then?”  
  
  
  
“A hell of a lot closer than we were before. Don’t worry, I don’t think it will be much longer.”  
  
  
  
A smile pulled at the drummer’s lips, hope finally finding a place in his heart again. “Thank you Kaplan.”  
  
  
  
Tré hung up and stood, his stomach suddenly bubbling with nerves and contained excitement.  
  
  
  
“Mike!” He felt the muscles in his cheek begin to ache from the jack-o-lantern grin he was currently sporting and dashed for the bassists closed door.  
  
  
  
He threw it open and rushed to the bed said bassist was currently passed out on. “Mike, Mike, wake up!” His knees bouncing the mattress and his palms beating at the figure on the bed until it stirred angrily.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Mike’s face creased, eyes squinted at the bumbling drummer attacking him like it was Christmas morning on the bed.  
  
  
  
“ _WhathafuckTré_?”  
  
  
  
His arms felt like they were packed with lead as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  
  
  
  
The goddamn light was too bright and Tré was being too fucking loud, babbling something about Billie.  
  
  
  
Billie.  
  
  
  
His heart shot a bolt of adrenaline through his body as something seemed to register through his hazy mind. He sat up and tried to decipher the cryptic words spewing out of his friends mouth, god he needed some coffee.  
  
  
  
 _Billie!_  
  
  
  
Mike was on his feet and searching for a clean shirt as Tré was explaining to him for the fifth time what Kaplan had told him.  
  
  
  
“They’ve found him?”  
  
  
  
Tré shook his head. “Not yet, but they’ve got to now!”  
  
  
  
Mike nodded, absentmindedly fingering the tag on his inside out and backwards shirt as he yanked his shoes on in the same hasty manner his shirt was.  
  
  
  
“We’re goin’ aren’t we?” Mike asked grabbing his jacket and pushing Tré out of his room.   
  
  
  
The drummer nodded, grabbing the keys by the front hall then stopping and turning hesitantly to Mike, fingers idly playing with the  _Gumby_  keychain Billie had bought one day, claiming that his keys were lonely. Now that Mike thinks back on that day he thinks Billie was probably a little drunk.  
  
  
  
“There’s one thing I didn’t tell you…” Tré trails off, biting his lip nervously.  
  
  
  
Mike shifts restlessly on his feet. “What is it?”  
  
  
  
“The guy they’re after…he bought Billie.”  
  
  
  
And the uneasy bouncing in his legs stop as Mike’s brow furrows, listening to Tré’s words echo through his mind.  
  
  
  
“Did you say… _bought_?”  
  
  
  
Tré nods, unable to meet his friend’s eyes.  
  
  
  
Mike can feel his anger fueling, burning and bubbling over in his stomach, a growl ready to be released from his throat. But he swallows it forcefully.  
  
  
  
He can’t be lashing out now, he can’t be doing this to himself, to Tré.   
  
  
  
Mike huffs shakily through his nose, an effort to calm the heated storm trying to rise in his chest.  
  
  
  
And when he meets his friend’s eyes he sees Tré’s pinched face, apprehensive and ready for Mike to blow his top.  
  
  
  
Instead he shakes his head and nods to the door, “Let’s go.” His voice strained tightly in his throat.  
  
  
  
Tré only nods again and opens the door, making his way to the car whilst Mike stays a pace behind, fists clenching at his sides.  
  
  
  
 _If I ever lay my hands on that sonuvabitch…_  Mike thinks, a million ways to finish that sentence running through his head.  
  
  
  
Not one of them pleasant.


	10. Chapter 10

Tré stepped into the police station for the third time in just as many days with an anxious Mike at his side.  
  
  
  
He was starting to hate it here.  
  
  
  
Tré scanned the heads of the precinct quickly before spotting Kaplan at someone’s desk along the far wall. He hurried over, about to ask if they’ve found anything when Mike came storming across the room.   
  
  
  
Tré hadn’t even noticed the bassist had left his side.  
  
  
  
“Where’s Billie?”  
  
  
  
Both Tré and Kaplan turned to face the flustered man.   
  
  
  
“Um…” Kaplan shifted uneasily and Tré’s heart dropped in his stomach.  
  
  
  
“Mike,” He turned to his friend, destined for answers, “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”  
  
  
  
“Billie’s gone. That computer…” Mike turned back to Kaplan furiously, “Where is it? Where is he?”  
  
  
  
Kaplan began ushering them into his office and that’s when Tré noticed every face in the precinct had turned to watch them.  
  
  
  
Once they were inside the small office Mike glowered at Kaplan, waiting for an answer.  
  
  
  
The cop shifted under Mike’s glare and when no words were spoken in the amount of time Mike wanted, he yelled, “Where is he?”  
  
  
  
“We don’t know.”   
  
  
  
“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?”  
  
  
  
“We lost the feed.”  
  
  
  
Tré’s head was whipping in the directions of the two men as they were speaking and the words were slowly registering.  
  
  
  
The drummer was about to ask his own questions on the matter, like, ‘what the hell happened?’ when there was suddenly a bustle of movement outside Kaplan’s door.  
  
  
  
The three men quickly exited the room in a hurry to see what was going on and watched as Kaplan was pulled aside and spoken to by one of his men.  
  
  
  
“What is it?” Mike asked and Tré was glad for that because his own voice seemed to be lost at the moment.  
  
  
  
“We got him.” Kaplan said in a rush and he moved past them, back into his office where he slipped his gun into his holster and grabbed his car keys.  
  
  
  
Mike and Tré follow the cop before he could tell them otherwise and suddenly they were in the backseat of Kaplan’s black SUV on a very anxious ride to some old car garage.  
  
  
  
On the way Kaplan had explained to the band mates that they’d found a match to the truck the kids had described and that the guy, a Karl Jenkins, owns the car and several others at his home in Burchfield. His home, it turned out, also doubled as an old car garage whose metallic residents all seemed to have a criminal record of their own.  
  
  
  
By the time they got to the shoddy little house, Tré saw that it was surrounded by S.W.A.T. men.   
  
  
  
“Stay here.” Kaplan commanded as he hopped out of the car and made his way to another cop’s vehicle.  
  
  
  
Tré had to hold Mike back as he watched the S.W.A.T. men enter the house with their guns in front of them.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
It was the longest Mike had ever waited. He watched as the S.W.A.T. men entered and it seemed to take forever before their black, armored forms emerged again.  
  
  
  
“All clear!”  
  
  
  
Those words put Mike into motion. He didn’t have a thought as he ran for the house, dodging police men on the way. Vaguely, he heard Tré and Kaplan calling for him, but all that mattered at that moment was that he got inside the house.  
  
  
  
“Billie!” Mike raced from room to room, calling desperately for his friend, “Billie?”  
  
  
  
He rounded a corner and found a large, messy room. There were tables with old tools lying on them. Each one was gritty and stained, lined up like Doctor’s instruments.   
  
  
  
Mike scowled at the tools and turned to leave the room when a door in the far corner caught his eye.  
  
  
  
He rushed to it and flung it open, beyond it was a small, dark hallway. Mike’s hands flew to the walls, in finding no light switch he ran his fingers along the peeled wallpaper until he felt wood.  
  
  
  
It was a door, an open door. Mike’s heart raced as it swung open and he caught whiff of what lay beyond.  
  
  
  
His nose wrinkled as he descended stairs and the smell grew stronger.   
  
  
  
Finding a light switch he flipped it on and covered his mouth at the sight.  
  
  
  
The smell was blood, it was all over the floor, large, dried brown stains on the cement. Mike’s eyes scanned the room and he sadly begun to understand that he had seen this room before.  
  
  
  
There were some unlocked shackles chained into the floor where the blood was and across the room was a cam recorder attached to a tripod laying on its side. A small stone was wedged in between the camera’s lens, the glass cracked like a spider web.  
  
  
  
Mike felt his legs grow weak and was thankful when arms wrapped around his torso, preventing his fall.  
  
  
  
The last thing Mike remembered before passing out was the distorted voices of the police men all around him.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
 _That_  fucker _! That little sonuvabitch._  His mind reeled as he turned the wheel and the truck bounced over rough terrain.  
  
  
  
 _Doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he know that he’s mine?_  One stupid mistake, one tiny little screw up on his part and he lost him. Fucking lost him.  
  
  
  
He heard those kids ratted on him, should’ve known they’d be dumb enough to get caught by the police for a  _completely different reason_  nonetheless and then tattletale.  
  
  
  
But it was OK, he had a plan, he had somewhere to go. All he needed to do was move Armstrong, unlock him and then throw him in the backseat again.   
  
  
  
The guitarist had acted like he was weak, acted like he was tired from pain, stiffness and blood loss. He fucking whined and bitched like a five year old. But it was just an act.  
  
  
  
He turned his back for a second, a fucking  _second_ , opened the goddamned truck door. Turns back around and the little shit is gone. Fucker is  _fast_.  
  
  
  
But he thought, hey, guy couldn’t get that far, his hands were tied. Hard to run in a shitty wooded area like this and keep your balance while running without your arms, right?   
  
  
  
Well, he thought, where would he go? The car lot, of course. He had at least fifty old machines back there. But, he turned that whole goddamned lot upside down, the punk was gone.  
  
  
  
So, now he’s here in his truck, driving through the woods like a fucking battering ram looking for the little guy in the middle of the fucking night.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Billie crouched behind a tree, his arms rubbing harshly against the jagged bark behind him. His heart was pounding and his ears were ringing, chest heaving in a sweat soaked shirt.   
  
  
  
He struggled to catch his breath and stay quiet. It had become deathly silent in the woods, the loud roar of the truck had stopped and Billie feared his captor had decided to try looking for him on foot instead.  
  
  
  
He grit his teeth, nostrils flaring with the need for heavy gulps of air. He tried to quiet himself. Quiet the erratic pounding of his heart, quiet the obnoxious ringing in his ears, quiet his trembling body on the brush beneath him.  
  
  
  
Then he heard something a few yards away and his body suddenly knew how to quiet itself as his senses grew sharp and alert.  
  
  
  
Slowly, he began to stand, the muscles in his legs burning and protesting. He didn’t bother to move away from the tree when he felt the skin on his arms ripping against the bark.   
  
  
  
He braced himself as soon as he was standing, tight against the trunk he kept himself, backed against it for protection.  
  
  
  
He wasn’t going to be taken again. He wasn’t going back.   
  
  
  
He was ready to fight.


	11. Chapter 11

Billie searched the dark woods before him. He was coming for him, coming to take him back.  
  
  
  
There was another rustle of leaves a few yards to his left and Billie’s head whipped in that direction, eyes squinting in the darkness.  
  
  
  
Then there was a flash of movement in front of his face and he didn’t have time to think before there was a rope around his neck, around the tree, pulling him backwards.  
  
  
  
His head slammed against the bark and the rope tightened, cutting off air.  
  
  
  
The guitarist struggled uselessly, his hands scrabbling at the bark behind him. His heart raced, pounding through every vein in his body as he heard his captor snickering.   
  
  
  
Billie lurched forward, neck straining, legs lifting and knees bending to push against the tree.  
  
  
  
He heard his captor curse as the rope slipped from his hands and the singer fell to the ground, wasting no time getting back on his feet.  
  
  
  
“Look at you,” His captor snarled, “You really think you can fight me? You’re pathetic. Give up.”   
  
  
  
Billie stood there panting,  _he’s right_. The guy started walking forward, slowly, and Billie backed up.  
  
  
  
 _Fuck_ , the singer dropped to the ground, his heart racing as he curled his body and tried to get his tied wrists over his hip.  
  
  
  
His captor dove at him, grabbing his ankle and yanking him across the ground, Billie kicked furiously with his free leg, third kick hitting the guy between the legs.   
  
  
  
Quickly, he resumed his struggle with his bound wrists and managed to wiggle his hips through them before his captor launched at him one more time, going for his throat.  
  
  
  
Billie promptly bit him, hard. His captor reeled back, grabbing at his arm and howling in pain.  
  
  
  
It was then Billie Joe got his tied hands over his feet and seized the guy’s leg, yanking hard.  
  
  
  
His captor fell to the ground, letting out a shocked yell. Billie tried to scramble to his feet, but there were hands on him, clawing and ripping and keeping him pushed to the ground.  
  
  
  
The two men fought in the dirt like animals, each trying to dominate as pine needles and twigs scratched at their skin.  
  
  
  
Then Billie yelled as dusty earth was thrown in his face, burning in his eyes. The guitarist scrubbed at his face furiously until the dark woods wavered back into sight.   
  
  
  
Unfortunately he only got to look a second before he shut his eyes against the pain in his head as he was violently struck with a rock.   
  
  
  
Billie fell unconscious.   
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Tré paced the room worriedly, his eyes flitting from where his feet were jutting out beneath him to where Mike lay unconscious on the couch to his right.  
  
  
  
Then Mike moaned and stirred and Tré stopped pacing and knelt at his friend’s side.  
  
  
  
“Hey, you alright, man?”  
  
  
  
Mike squinted in his direction before making a clumsy attempt to sit up. Tré assisted him and watched as Mike’s memory slowly came back. He knew it was back as soon as the bassist dropped his head in his hands and swore under his breath.  
  
  
  
“He wasn’t there.” The words were muffled by Mike’s palms, “He wasn’t there.”  
  
  
  
Tré was giving his friend a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder when Mike suddenly stood and knocked Tré off balance, the drummer toppled backwards onto his butt.  
  
  
  
“I mean he  _was_  there, we saw him there, but he took him.” Mike was talking fast, heatedly. “He was fucking  _there_ , and he took him. Oh god, we were too late.”  
  
  
  
Tré stood and stepped in front of Mike, gripping his biceps hard, leveling him to reality, calming his panic. “He couldn’t have gotten far-”  
  
  
  
“No! We had him! We fucking had him!” Mike pulled out of his friend’s grip and Tré felt anger start to bubble at the pit of his stomach.  
  
  
  
“Mike! Come on, man. Don’t do this.”  
  
  
  
But the bassist ignored him and stalked through the house angrily. “We have to go back, we have to go find him. Rip that house apart, we have to-”  
  
  
  
“No, Mike, we have to wait. The police are doing their job, they’ll-”  
  
  
  
“The  _police_?” Mike interrupted, “You think they’ll find him? What, because they’ve done such a stand up job so far?”  
  
  
  
“You think you could do better?!” Tré shouted, his anger unraveling with each word, tired of the bassist’s constant attitude during this whole fiasco.  
  
  
  
“Yeah! I think I could!”  
  
  
  
Tré shook his head, “You’re so full of it.” He muttered and Mike stopped, glaring daggers at Tré.  
  
  
  
“What is your problem?”  
  
  
  
The drummer scoffed, disbelieving, “ _My_  problem?” He jabbed a finger at his own chest and shook his head again. “I can’t believe you, Dirnt. You have to turn around and blame everyone, don’t you? First the cops and now me?” Tré paused before spitting out his next words with the intent to hurt, “I liked you better when you were blaming yourself.”  
  
  
  
And that was when Mike’s anger finally boiled over, when that last straw had been plucked clear and he hit Tré. A clean and unexpected blow to the drummer’s jaw, hard enough to send him reeling.   
  
  
  
Tré turned back to Mike, his face in his hands and shock written strong in his features.   
  
  
  
But before he could say anything Mike was already grabbing his jacket and heading out the front door.  
  
  
  
Well, shit.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Billie struggled uselessly in the wooden chair he was tied to. He’d woken up in a dark room, roped to a creaky chair with a killer headache.  
  
  
  
A light clicked on nearby and dimly illuminated what looked like a living room to a small, dusty little cabin. There was an old wood burning fireplace a few feet in front of him and a big ass moose head plastered on the wall above it. Black, dead eyes stared at Billie. Diagonally to his right was a old red couch, stuffing spilling from it like intestines, and next to that a small wooden table which held the lamp his captor had turned on.   
  
  
  
Not much else filled the cabin from what Billie could see, just a lot of cracked and dusty wood, complete with cobwebs.  
  
  
  
The guitarist’s eyes followed his captor as he made his way to the empty fireplace in front of him.  
  
  
  
Billie sighed, both physically and mentally tired, and let his mind’s barriers down a little, “What do you want with me?” He thought of Adie’s face and stifled a sob.   
  
  
  
His captor took the few steps from where he was standing at the fireplace to close the distance between them. He bent over until he was a few inches from Billie’s face, “To control you.”  
  
  
  
The singer’s heart sped up in his chest, this guy was sick. “What-“ Billie swallowed thickly, processing those words again, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”   
  
  
  
His captor straightened and turned back to the fireplace. “Don’t you understand, Armstrong? I  _bought_  you. See? So you’re mine. You do as I say.”   
  
  
  
Billie shook his head, silent denial, and he narrowed his eyes, “I will never do anything for you.”  
  
  
  
His captor sighed, head tilting as he nonchalantly scratched at his neck. “See now, I thought you might say that.”   
  
  
  
Billie watched as the man in front of him took something from the fireplace mantle and placed it behind his back.  
  
  
  
“But, you know?” He said it like he wasn’t talking about Billie’s rights, he said it as casually as a friend trying to convince him to go fishing. It was sing-songed and taunting, it grated on Billie’s nerves. “You might as well just obey.”  
  
  
  
“Why?” The word was strained between Billie’s clenched teeth, “Why would I do that?”  
  
  
  
His captor’s eyes fell on his and they were shining with mirth, Billie shivered in his seat. “Because you have no other choice.”  
  
  
  
The guitarist opened his mouth to protest when the man cut him off, “You’re probably thinking that you’ll get out of this, huh? I mean, come on, you’re Billie Joe fucking Armstrong, you’re famous, you’re a rock star. The whole world should be looking for you right now, right? Wrong.”   
  
  
  
Then his captor pulled out that something from behind his back, a newspaper, folded up and clenched in the guy’s fist. “No one’s looking for you anymore, Billie Joe Armstrong.”   
  
  
  
And Billie watched as the newspaper was unfolded before him, and his heart sunk into his rib cage as he found he was looking at a picture of himself on the front page with a headline that read ‘Green Day Lead Singer Found Dead.’  
  
  
  
Billie watched through blurry eyes as the man in front of him crumpled the newspaper and threw it on the old red couch.  
  
  
  
His captor sneered and used that taunting sing-song voice once more, “You’re all mine now.”  
  
  
  
Billie squeezed his eyes shut and felt his skin burn under the hot path of his tears.


	12. Chapter 12

Mike motioned the barkeep for another shot of whiskey. The heavy man bumbled over and poured Mike some of the amber liquid while speaking in a gruff voice, “Alright, but this is your last one. You get outta here after, I don’t want no trouble in my bar. I ain’t gonna be responsible for yer sorry ass.”  
  
  
  
Mike tried his best to glare at the man through his drunken haze. “What-Come on! I’ve only had…” The bassist tried to count how many beers and shots he’d downed in the last couple of hours but couldn’t seem to come up with a number.  
  
  
  
The bartender shook his head at Mike and turned to attend to someone else’s drink. Babbling drunks were probably something the man had become accustomed to seeing every night.   
  
  
  
Mike grabbed the small glass between calloused fingers and tipped his head back, letting the liquid slide down his throat. It didn’t even burn anymore.   
  
  
  
With that he stood clumsily and grabbed his coat, throwing money on the bar he made his way out into the parking lot and inhaled the cold air outside. He felt terrible. The guilt was still there, for hitting Tré, for all the things Tré had said about him, the truth in those words. He’d headed straight for a local bar, to get wasted and forget all the shit the past week had brought.  
  
  
  
But it wasn’t enough. He still remembered. He needed to get so trashed he would forget his own name.  
  
  
  
Mike stumbled through the parking lot, his jacket swaying in a loose fist at his side, and walked the dark streets until found what he was looking for.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
The man chuckled to himself, the newspaper laid out in front of him on the table as he sipped his beer.  _This was too easy. All this time and all he had needed was_  this?  _A simple ploy?_  
  
  
  
He stood from the table then, his legs stumbling drunkenly beneath him.  
  
  
  
It had been the simplest way, remove the singer’s hope. And how easy it had been, all he had needed was a false paper. Just a little bit of proof. And of course it hadn’t been hard. No, you throw enough cash in anybody’s direction and you can get anything done.  
  
  
  
He leaned heavily on the kitchen cabinet and tossed his empty beer in sink. His hands picked up the heavy envelope nearby and he smiled giddily in his drunken stupor. He couldn’t wait to send them this.  
  
  
  
Finally he had gotten what he wanted, finally all hard work and planning had paid off. Eleven years worth of planning and things were finally perfect.   
  
  
  
He laughed out loud to the empty room until his eyes blurred with tears. Wiping them away with the back of his hand he looked down at the large, orange envelope he held.  
  
  
  
There was just one more thing he had to do.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Tré entered the house, closing the door behind him and throwing his keys on the table in the front hallway. A large mirror was situated above the small, wooden table and Tré studied his bruised jaw until he heard something shatter in the kitchen.   
  
  
  
The drummer froze, momentary paralysis stole his body as some of the worst imaginable scenarios ran through his head. The thought of Billie’s captor coming back for more at the top of his list.  
  
  
  
Tré shook himself out of his panicked state and his hand clamped around the cell phone in his pocket, ready to dial for help if needed.   
  
  
  
He edged himself quietly down the hallway, keeping close to the wall until he reached the large sitting room and his fear was replaced with anger.  
  
  
  
The T.V. was on, playing adult cartoons in the late hour of the night. The glass coffee table situated in the center of the room had shattered, and beneath its open frame lay shards of glass, booze and dead cigarettes and empty baggies once filled with weed.  
  
  
  
Tré knew the coffee table shattering wasn’t what he had heard when he came into the house and he stalked into the kitchen only to find Mike sprawled and dozing in the center of the tiled floor.  
  
  
  
“Mike!” The drummer woke his friend loudly and stomped over broken silverware on the floor to get to the bassist. His hand was bleeding all over the stark white linoleum of the kitchen floor. “Fuck, Mike, what the hell are you doing?”  
  
  
  
Tré leant down to yank his friend off the floor and pulled him into the sitting room where he dropped him on the sofa. The drummer grabbed the remote from the arm rest and snapped off the T.V. Going back into the kitchen he grabbed a dish towel and came back out, before examining his friend’s hand. He found a chunk of glass imbedded in the bassist’s palm and was none too careful when he pulled it out.  
  
  
  
Mike yelled out incoherently and snatched his hand back away from the drummer, cradling it to his chest.  
  
  
  
Tré took it back and dumped what was left of some vodka he found in the pile of glass beneath the coffee table’s skeleton. Mike whined and tried to pull his hand away again, but Tré hung on until he could wrap the dish towel around it and tie it securely.  
  
  
  
Tré stood and examined what else lay on the ground, reaching through the glass littered floor he grabbed the beer cans and dead joints that laid there.  
  
  
  
“What the fuck is this, Dirnt?”  
  
  
  
Mike’s head lolled on the couch and squinted at the things in Tré’s hands before a smile spread on his face and a garbled laugh erupted in him.  
  
  
  
The drummer shook his head and threw the items to the floor,  _this was unbelievable. What the fuck was he thinking?_  Tré was so sick of the way he’d been acting ever since it happened, he understood it would be hard and expected some strange attitude. But this was ridiculous, this was just getting worse and worse.  
  
  
  
Tré’s thoughts came to a stop when his eyes landed on a needle in the rubble of glass. The drummer picked it up and shoved it in Mike’s face vehemently. “You dumb shit!”   
  
  
  
Mike’s laughing suddenly came to a halt and his face softened, giving him a look of innocence.   
  
  
  
“You’re gonna fucking kill yourself! Is that what you want? Huh? You want to die because you’re too much of a fucking coward to face what’s happening? Huh? You want to leave me here alone, abandon me like a fucking piece of trash? Did you even think?” Tré’s voice rose steadily until he was screaming and red in the face. “I can’t believe you fucking took that shit. I’m calling the police. I won’t let you ditch me, it’s not fair, you don’t get to go and leave me behind.”   
  
  
  
The drummer pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open when Mike began to mumble at him, “I didn’t…’m’Sorry, c-couldn’t…”  
  
  
  
Tré stilled and listened to the bassist, trying to keep his anger in check. “This is fucking heroin, man, it’s going to kill you.” He shook the needle in his hand for emphasis.  
  
  
  
“I know!” Mike shouted with sudden clarity before that became lost to him once more, “I didn’t…m’sorry, Tr… _please_ …”  
  
  
  
Tré put down the phone when Mike’s eyelids slipped closed and the drummer shrugged out of his jacket and stalked off to his bedroom where he collapsed tiredly.  _When would all this shit be over?_  
  
  
  
  
  
It was around nine in the morning when Tré’s phone had rung. He had been busy sweeping up glass and throwing away empty beer cans when he got the news. It was a familiar sense of Déjà vu and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel excited or afraid about the new lead Kaplan had found since the last few times they’d been called down to the precinct it hadn’t exactly gone well.  
  
  
  
Tré jostled Mike awake and shoved him out the door after the bassist had gotten his coffee.  
  
  
  
The ride over had been quiet at first. Tré scolded himself for feeling guilty for all the yelling he’d been doing at Mike when he knew he had the right to do it. But, they were going through tough times right now, Mike had a right to do what he did also…to an extent, which he had passed.  
  
  
  
Tré sighed irritably before allowing the words to escape his mouth, “How’s yer hand?”  
  
  
  
Mike turned to look at him, his hands cupping the half empty, lukewarm cup of coffee and he answered, “Hurts like a bitch.”  
  
  
  
There was a short silence before Tré could see Mike shifting in his seat, his mouth opening and closing, trying to assemble his words in his head so they would come out like he wanted them too.  
  
  
  
Finally, he spoke, “Tré…I’m sorry.”   
  
  
  
Tré nodded dully. He wasn’t sure if he forgave him or not. The rest of the ride was silent.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Mike watched as Kaplan held an orange envelope in front of them and spoke, of what? Mike had no idea. He wasn’t listening. All he knew was that they had gotten something from Billie’s captor and it probably was a tape because Kaplan was standing next to a T.V.  
  
  
  
He couldn’t take this anymore. Whatever was on that tape he definitely did not want to see it. But he knew he would.   
  
  
  
Kaplan went on about something Mike only interpreted as white noise and he dropped his head to pinch at the bridge of his nose. God, his head fucking hurt. He didn’t remember much about last night other than Tré yelling at him and fixing his hand.  
  
  
  
Mike cradled his newly bandaged hand, which Kaplan had been so kind to fix up properly for him.   
  
  
  
Suddenly he heard static and he’d realized they’d put the tape in, Mike’s heart jumped in his throat as he looked up and watched the screen change to a black and white video picture of some sort of living room.  
  
  
  
Billie sat in the middle.  
  
  
  
They stared at the front man sitting there silently for a few minutes before a dark figure filled the screen. The man began to circle Billie and Mike’s eyes fell to the bottom left hand corner of the screen where he focused on whatever shapes he saw there. He couldn’t look at Billie, he just couldn’t.  
  
  
  
The man dressed in black started speaking and detectives in the room began scribbling down notes.  
  
  
  
But Mike couldn’t hear the words, it was still white noise to him. His eyes brimmed with tears as he could still make out the small figure sitting silent in the middle of the screen.  
  
  
  
He heard Tré sharply mutter a curse and Mike’s attention snapped back then. His eyes flicked to Billie and his ears registered what the man was saying to his friend.  
  
  
  
“…mine now. You’ll do exactly as I say, no questions asked. You have nobody, you are no one. You aren’t worth the dirt beneath your feet. You’re less than dirt, you’re scum. Your whole life will be devoted to me. You will go by my every word. You won’t be able to do anything without my permission. You won’t eat, you won’t sleep, you won’t piss with out my approval. Do you understand me?”  
  
  
  
And Mike heard the next words with a strange calm.   
  
  
  
Spoken in a small voice, “Yes, sir.”  
  
  
  
Mike’s eyes strayed back to that spot in the corner of the screen and for a while it was nothing but a blur of shapes and pixels but then something registered before the T.V. was turned into black and white static again.  
  
  
  
Mike’s mind suddenly felt so clear. The pain in his hand left him as realization hit.  
  
  
  
That blur of lines and dots in the corner of the screen wasn’t just lines and dots. It was something more than that.   
  
  
  
Mike felt a sudden euphoria hit as his legs carried him away, a smile ghosting his lips.  
  
  
  
He knew where Billie was.


	13. Chapter 13

Mike’s fingers wrapped around the car keys in his jacket pocket as he rushed through the precinct.   
  
  
  
“Mike!”   
  
  
  
That shape, in the corner of the screen, they weren’t just pixels. It’d taken a while for his brain to sort the image out but he recognized it immediately. It was a cup on the floor.  
  
  
  
“Mike, wait!”  
  
  
  
He pushed the door open and felt cold air from the parking lot hit his face. It was over, he would end it now. He would find Billie.  
  
  
  
“Mike! Goddamnit, where are you going?!”  
  
  
  
Mike got into the car and started the ignition. He was going to kill the bastard who had put his friend through this.   
  
  
  
The bassist peeled out of the parking lot leaving a puzzled Tré behind.   
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
 _Fuck_. Tré thought,  _fuck_! Mike was pissing him off, really and truly pissing him off. He had just left, he’d practically bolted.   
  
  
  
After what had happened last night Tré thought Mike would have learned his lesson, but there he had gone, flooring it out of the parking lot probably to the nearest bar. What the fuck was wrong with him?  
  
  
  
Tré ran back into the police station to tell Kaplan, he’d send some officers to go get Mike’s ass back here where it belonged.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Geoff parked the red pickup tuck behind the old gas station. He’d have someone dispose of it for him, it was only a liability now. Leaving the keys in the ignition Geoff got out of the car and rounded to the front of the gas station, it wasn’t far from the cabin and he would start walking back now. A new car would be waiting for him a few miles down the road, it was nice having a lot of people owe you, it was easy getting favors done.  
  
  
  
As he walked he thought about the little singer waiting for him at the cabin. It was invigorating, knowing that he would be waiting for him, without chains or shackles of any kind, he was finally obeying.  
  
  
  
Albeit, the guy was in some sort of shock, it was easy to maneuver him. But Geoff crossed his fingers that as soon as that wore off it wouldn’t take much to get the singer to start to believe this life was all he had.  
  
  
  
There still was one small problem though, the tattoos. That was something he still had to fix, it was too nostalgic for Armstrong to look at. He would get a new belt sander and be proud of new scars  _he’d_  created.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Mike crouched just out of sight in the woods, the trees providing a dark cover. Only fifty feet away was a small cabin. Billie was in there. He had to be.  
  
  
  
If he was right and this worked then perhaps later Mike would have a good laugh at the situation, the irony of it all. The fact that Billie Joe’s rescue could be the result of Mike’s caffeine addiction.   
  
  
  
It had been a cup. A simple Styrofoam cup with a yellow goose printed on it’s side. It was a compulsion of Mike’s, to check out the town for their local coffee joints and last month Green Day had made a stop in the small town of Willowsfield. And in that town Mike had come across a very strange little shop called ‘Mother Goose’ that sold products like ‘Jack’s Magic Coffee Beans’. It was a ridiculous name but Mike never forgot the place.   
  
  
  
Eight towns over in the next state, and he drove as fast as humanly possible. Once he was there it wasn’t hard to locate the small cabin, the giant moose head in the background of Billie’s video told Mike of the only area in town where such animals lived. And after some trekking in the woods and following weeded dirt roads Mike found the fresh tracks of a pickup truck that brought him to the cabin he sat in front of now.  
  
  
  
But there was no truck, and that was worrying the bassist. Mike stood from the brush and darted across the clearing to the side of the cabin, keeping himself as low to the ground as possible without tripping over. With his back pressed to the cabin Mike edged himself around the little house, carefully ducking underneath windows on his way.   
  
  
  
It didn’t look like there was anyone there, the backyard was empty too. Mike continued along the back of the house until he found a door and carefully tested the knob. He found it open and quietly let himself inside.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
“Well, I don’t know where he is. We’ve checked every bar in the area, are you sure that’s where he went? Is that what he said?”  
  
  
  
“Actually, he didn’t really  _say_  he was going to the bar- but I just figured after his incident last night that that’s what he decided to do again!” Tré finished quickly when Kaplan gave him an irritated look. “C’mon, what do you expect me to think? He just ran out of here, without his cell phone, without saying a word, and right after watching that… _that_ ” Tré pointed at the T.V. screen in Kaplan’s office. “It’s what he did last time.”  
  
  
  
There was a long silence as Kaplan just looked at Tré, seemingly trying to figure out what to say or do with the situation, but eventually he just sighed and said, “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll find him, okay? He’s not going to put his life in danger, not with all that’s happening. I’ll call you if he shows up here, alright? Now, go.” Kaplan pushed Tré toward the door while the drummer prayed that what Kaplan was saying was true.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
“Billie?” Mike whispered into the empty living room. The whole cabin was plunged into darkness shortly after shutting the back door and Mike’s eyes widened, trying to see into every dark corner.   
  
  
  
“Billie?” He moved quickly through the cabin and his heart dropped a little further into his stomach every time he found a room empty. “Please Bill, it’s Mike, if you’re here answer me.”  
  
  
  
He opened a door in the hallway and it revealed a small bathroom, Mike tried to sort the shapes out in the darkness and his heart jump started when he saw a small body tucked into the corner of the room.   
  
  
  
“Bill?” Mike closed the distance between him and the figure in about three giant steps and crouched down, his hands hovering over the person uncertainly. It was too damn dark and Mike stood to search for a light switch after it was clear he wouldn’t be able to see properly.   
  
  
  
The light flicked on and Mike squinted against the sudden brightness before his eyes fell upon the body again. His breath caught in his throat. It  _was_  Billie.   
  
  
  
“Oh fuck.” The bassist choked out before settling down in front of his friend.   
  
  
  
The guitarist was sitting against the wall, hugging his legs to his chest with his head resting on his knees.  
  
  
  
“Bill?” Mike’s hand reached out shakily, a lump forming in his throat as he stared at the unmoving body. “Beej?” His fingertips barely brushed the skin at Billie’s throat when the singer snapped to attention, his eyes wide and feral as he took in his surroundings, hands coming up to claw at Mike.  
  
  
  
“Billie! Hey, Bill, it’s me, It’s Mike. Hey, you’re okay now man, Bill, can you hear me?”  
  
  
  
Billie stopped then. Just stopped. His body going slack against the corner walls of the bathroom, his arms coming back up to hold his legs, he just stopped and let his head loll against the tiled wall.  
  
  
  
And that’s when Mike saw him, really saw him. Yes, it was Billie, Billie with his tattoos and black hair, but now Mike was seeing how it wasn’t Bill. He saw blood matted, greasy hair. He saw sweat stained and ripped clothes. Dirtied and bruised skin. Mike was seeing all that had been done to the singer, all that had changed him, because this man beside him now was not the Billie he knew.   
  
  
  
Mike snapped his fingers in front of Billie’s eyes and felt his nose burn with the threat of tears when the smaller man didn’t respond. “Alright, fine. I gotta get you out of here man, and if you’re not gonna help I’ll just have to do it all myself.” Mike stood, bending over his friend he gripped beneath Billie’s arms, careful of the large bloodied bandage on his left shoulder, and started to lift him when Billie spoke.   
  
  
  
“M’fault…”  
  
  
  
Mike stopped, “What?” He watched as Billie slowly wet his lips.  
  
  
  
“It’s all my fault.” His voice was dry and gritty. “They think I’m dead.”  
  
  
  
“Who thinks you’re dead?” Mike pressed, trying to get Billie’s eyes to meet his, but they were locked on something in the distance, something only Billie could see.  
  
  
  
“Everyone…Adrienne." A tear slipped down his face, dirt and grime cleared in it’s path, “My boys, Joey and Jakob. I- I was ‘sposed to be there for them.”  
  
  
  
“Bill…”   
  
  
  
“I promised myself, after what happened to my father, I promised I’d be there for them. I didn’t want them to go through what I had to go through…and I’ve let them down. I’ve failed my family. My friends…they think I’m dead. Tré…Mike…they think-”  
  
  
  
“No, shit, Bill. I’m right here, you’re not dead. I see that, we’ve been looking for you, and I found you. I’m going to take you home now, alright? God, you don’t know how happy I am to have found you.” He scrubbed away a tear and reached out to brush away the hair in his friend’s eyes, “I’m going to get you back home. Your family is waiting, now let’s go.” Mike started lifting Billie once more when he heard the crunch of gravel beneath car tires just outside the cabin. “Shit!” Mike let go of Billie and dove at the wall, flicking off the light switch and plunging the room into darkness once more.   
  
  
  
 _Fuck!_  He had no weapon. Nothing. What the  _fuck_  was he thinking? He’d driven off so royally pissed at this man he hadn’t been thinking straight. The thought of vengeance had lain so cold in his heart he believed he had the strength and courage to face him himself.  
  
  
  
But now? Now he was in the reality of it and he had no weapon and no plan and worse of all, he had no help. An entire fucking  _S.W.A.T._  team was what he had and he came alone?   
  
  
  
Mike grabbed blindly at the bathroom counter, feeling for a weapon while he tried to turn his anger at himself into something useful.   
  
  
  
The car door slammed in the distance and Billie’s quiet voice followed, “He’s here.”  
  
  
  
Mike swung open the cabinet beneath the sink and thanked whoever was helping him when he saw the drain pipe lying on the floor of the cabinet. Grabbing it, Mike turned back around and yanked Billie to his feet with a small yelp from the singer.   
  
  
  
“C’mon, we’ve got to get out of here  _now._ ”  
  
  
  
Mike pulled Billie with him out of the bathroom and down the hall, and just as he was about to make a dash through the kitchen the door was flung open.  _Shit!_  Mike jumped back, keeping himself hidden in the hallway he listened to the man’s boots shuffle across the floor and the fridge door open. There was the clinking of some beer bottles before one was pulled out and the cap was popped off with a fizzy hiss.   
  
  
  
Mike gripped the pipe in his hand as he turned and started pushing Billie in the other direction, the front door was in the living room, maybe he could get them out that way. They moved slowly, Mike’s hand squeezing on Billie’s shoulder to keep him moving at a careful pace and hissing a shush in his ear when he stepped on a noisy floorboard. He stopped their movement then, waiting and listening for any sign that the man had heard.   
  
  
  
There was only silence. Mike waited longer, his breath stuck in his throat as he waited for some kind of noise that would tell him the man was still in the kitchen. None came and Mike-  
  
  
  
“Where do you think you’re going?”


	14. Chapter 14

“Where do you think you’re going?”  
  
  
  
Mike reacted fast, adrenaline pumping, his body followed through with the first thought in his mind. He spun, swinging the pipe in his fist up to strike the man’s head. But it was caught instead and Mike lost his grip on Billie as he grabbed to reclaim the pipe.   
  
  
  
With a grunt Billie’s captor shoved Mike off him and the bassist dropped heavily to the ground. Mike yelled out as the man’s body pinned him down. His legs kicked and his hips bucked as Mike tried to throw him off.  
  
  
  
“You little fucker! How’d you get here? Huh? How did you find me?” The guy’s hands closed on his throat and Mike tried to pry them off.  
  
  
  
“Did you actually think you could beat me? Did you actually believe you could stop me?!” The guy spit in Mike’s face vehemently and Mike started to see spots. “He’s  _mine_. You hear me?  _Mine!_ ” The word was punctuated when the guy cracked Mike’s head on the floorboards, “You. Will not. Stop me.” It was around there Mike lost consciousness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The first thought that flitted through Mike’s mind when he woke was  _fuck, my throat hurts_. Slowly, he lifted his head from his own shoulder and whined when his sore neck protested. Mike’s eyes opened lethargically and he squinted in the dim light, swallowing to clear the pain in his throat, which had only made it hurt more.  
  
  
  
The bassist’s head reeled to the side and it took him a moment to realize a fist had hit him. “ _Fuck!_ ” He spat, the curse leaving his mouth so fast he didn’t even remember what’d he’d said the moment after. Mike struggled then, arms and legs pushing against ropes and he muttered, “Lemme go.” His mind still searching for the reason he was tied to a chair.  
  
  
  
“I don’t think so, you little piece of  _shit_.”  
  
  
  
 _Oh yeah._  
  
  
  
A light snapped on somewhere behind him and a man he hated came into view.  
  
  
  
Mike bared his teeth in a snarl at the man, eyes glaring furiously. It was all his fault.   
  
  
  
Then Mike remembered more; sullen, green orbs.  
  
  
  
Billie.  
  
  
  
He looked around, eyes searching for his friend, “Where is he?” Mike’s voice was gravelly beneath his swollen throat.  
  
  
  
The man waved him off, “Don’t worry about him anymore.” He turned around then, occupying himself with a tray of tools Mike hadn’t even noticed were there. The bassist shifted in his seat as the sound of metal clanking on metal hit his ears.  
  
  
  
“I think I came off a little…rough earlier.” The man said, and turned around to face Mike. A rusty hammer in his hands and a voice filled with an artificial cheeriness. “I was never good at first impressions. See, I’m actually quite glad you stopped by.” He twisted the tool on his palm, dirty metal gleaming dully in the light. “We were just about to leave,”   
  
  
  
That’s when Mike saw the other half of the ‘we’ in that sentence step into his field of vision, head bowed obediently.  
  
  
  
A false smile spread on the guy’s face, “And it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know someone came by to wish us farewell.” Then the smile dropped like it was never there, and a voice as cold and as blunt as the tool in his palms said, “Hold his hand down.”  
  
  
  
Then a small, cold hand with calloused fingers pressed down on the back of Mike’s, just above where his wrist had been securely tied to the chair’s arm.  
  
  
  
“Billie?” Mike choked on his friend’s name, betrayal slowly seeping into his heart, threatening to drown it.  
  
  
  
Billie’s captor sneered at him, but Mike didn’t notice, he’s looking at Billie. “He ain’t gonna listen to you.”   
  
  
  
The bassist swung his head to face the man, his blue eyes icy with hatred, “What have you done to him?”  
  
  
  
But the guy seemed to ignore him as he moved to stand carefully in front of Mike’s hand, hammer raised, “I’m gonna warn you now, this just might hurt.”  
  
  
  
There’s screaming in his ears and pain in his hand after the hammer swings down on his fingers. There’s more than one blow and Mike thinks the pain will lesson with each one, but it intensifies with each one instead, and he’s sure that’s the sound of bones cracking with each swing.   
  
  
  
Then he can feel that the blows have stopped and his screaming dies with a wet, guttural noise in his throat. But, it’s then the absence of Billie’s cold palm,  _Billie’s hands are never cold,_  he notices there’s nothing left to destroy in his left hand and that they’re moving to his right.   
  
  
  
Mike’s mouth opens to let some pleading words,  _anything_ , spill. Anything to get Billie to snap out of it, “Bill! No, please don’t do this! Beej, don’t listen to this guy! He’s a fucking nut job.” Mike doesn’t see the man’s angry snarl. “Look what he’s  _done_ to you!”   
  
  
  
Billie’s palm presses to the backside of Mike’s.  
  
  
  
“ _Fuck_  Billie, Adie’s waiting for you.”  _Did he just feel Billie’s hand twitch?_  “This sick freak was lying to you.” Mike jerks his head in the direction of Billie’s captor and this time he sees the man’s features tight with rage.  
  
  
  
“He’s a madman.” Mike doesn’t turn to look back at Billie,  _Oh no, this is for you, you sick fuck._  “He’s a lunatic. Crazy, loco, he’s an ugly sonuvabitch, too.” The hammer clatters to the wood floor and the bassist hardly regrets his words when the punch comes. Then, shit-eating grin plastered to his face, Mike spits blood in the guy’s direction before, “Bet your momma was an ugly bitch, too.”  
  
  
  
That’s it. He’s done for. Mike knows it, you don’t talk about a man’s momma that way.  
  
  
  
The second punch comes and there’s pain. The third follows and Mike feels blood ooze. The fourth breaks the bassist’s nose. The fifth makes his left eye see things blurry. The sixth merges with the seventh and soon Mike’s lost count.  
  
  
  
There’s too many, one after the other and Mike’s face feels  _wethotsticky_  with blood.  
  
  
  
His eyes are shut but things seem to turn darker, blacker around his eyes and he begins to welcome it. It’s blissful sinking and he’s almost out, gone, done when there’s a noise, a crash. Then screaming. The kind of screaming you’d hear from somebody if the devil was taking their soul, terrifying.   
  
  
  
Mike’s good eye shoots open, but the room’s dim and he’s having a hard time adjusting to it. There’s movement, on the floor to his right.  
  
  
  
His eye slips closed again.  _No!_  He opens his eye and sees, there’s figures on the floor. He squints. The screaming continues.   
  
  
  
Then it stops. It’s dark and quiet and the hurt is gone. Why did the screaming stop? Why doesn’t it hurt?  _Shit!_  And Mike opens his good eye.  
  
  
  
How long was he out? The screaming has stopped. Is he still asleep? No, this feels like awake. There’s pain in his face, in his hand.  
  
  
  
Movement.  
  
  
  
Something shimmers.  
  
  
  
Mike widens his eye, as if that will help him see. Something is in front of him. Something glistening and shiny. It moves and the light spills upon its form more clearly. Mike can see it now.   
  
  
  
A monster. It’s a monster with a fountain pouring from its mouth. Black liquid spilling down its chest, rippling and glimmering in the light.  
  
  
  
It lunges towards him! He kicks at it, punches, grabs and claws. But the thing is invincible! Nothing hurts it, Mike’s punching at air!  
  
  
  
His head snaps up, eye cracking open. Awake again.  
  
  
  
How much was a dream?  
  
  
  
Then, someone-something’s touching him. He yells out and tries to thrash, but he’s tied down. He peers in the dim light to see his attacker.  
  
  
  
It’s the monster again, somehow looking smaller now. The fountain of black ink is still glimmering down its throat in the dim light, but not as wet as before. It’s drying.  
  
  
  
Mike’s broken hand suddenly flares with pain as the thing pounds on it, bites it, hits it, does something to it, Mike’s not sure what. He tells it to get away, he threatens its life. But it shushes him.  
  
  
  
It looks at Mike with twinkling green eyes and it shushes him, a finger poised at its inky mouth.  
  
  
  
The throbbing eases in Mike’s fingers and the rope around his wrist is pulled free before his eye drifts shut.   
  
  
  
The blackness is welcome.  
  



	15. Chapter 15

Harvey pulled one of the hospital’s plastic chairs up to Billie’s bedside.  
  
  
  
A silence followed as he watched the guitarist idly flip through the television mounted in the corner of the room.  
  
  
  
He cleared his throat and went for a cheery tone, “Hello Billie, I’m Officer Harvey Kaplan.” He stuck his hand out for greeting and slowly retracted it when it was only ignored.  
  
  
  
Billie continued to flip through the channels.  
  
  
  
“Listen,” Harvey changed to an authorizing tone then, hoping to be more successful, “Mr. Armstrong?”  
  
  
  
Billie stopped on a daytime soap, his finger pausing over the remote but it was obvious he wasn’t watching the television, he never was.  
  
  
  
Harvey softened his voice, “Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me how he died?” He paused, trying to read the singer’s stone, cold gaze, “How did you kill him, Mr. Armstrong?”  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Mike held out the phone and Billie stared at it, his expression unreadable.   
  
  
  
The bassist waited a little longer before pulling the receiver back to his mouth, “I’m sorry, Adrienne, I thought he was awake. I guess I was wrong, but listen, you won’t be satisfied until you  _see_  he’s okay anyways.” A smile filled his voice when he said next, “Come on, I know what a nervous wreck you can be, you’ll just scare him over the phone, let him experience how scary you really are in person.”   
  
  
  
There was a reply on the other end and Mike laughed, his heart wasn’t in it but it didn’t matter.  
  
  
  
“Alright, see you soon. Bye.”   
  
  
  
He hung up the phone with a soft click and looked back over at his friend carefully folded on the hospital bed. “Care to explain?”  
  
  
  
Billie shrugged.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
“They want me to do it.”  
  
  
  
“Isn’t that usually someone else’s job…?” Tré asked the officer.  
  
  
  
Harvey shrugged, “Well, yeah, but since  _I_  was the first one you guy’s came to and it was  _my_  case and I’m the one with the most information…yada, yada… It’s just,” He took a deep breath, “It’s not really my field of expertise, I don’t want to mess it up.”  
  
  
  
“How can you mess it up?”   
  
  
  
Harvey stared at the drummer for a few minutes, his mind processing the question and his honest answer before deciding to answer truthfully, “Make him regress more?” He sighed before trying to continue, “I don’t want to make him…” He searched for a word to soften the blow.  
  
  
  
“Worse?” Mike finished from his hospital bed and Harvey nodded, looking at the ruined left side of the bassist’s face.  
  
  
  
A silence fell in the room when suddenly Tré said, “Dude, you look like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde-Hey!”  
  
  
  
Tré dodged the Jell-O cup thrown at his head before picking it up and peeling off the top, “Hey, thanks, man.” He wasn’t able to dodge the juice box.  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
“Where is he? Can I see him? Is he awake yet?” Adrienne Armstrong breathlessly asked Billie’s doctor, Dr. Monnitoff. But before he could answer Mike was at their side and hugging Adrienne desperately.   
  
  
  
She squirmed and misunderstood Mike’s much needed hug for bad news, “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it Billie, is he-”  
  
  
  
Mike shushed her, “No, he’s fine. This is for me, for us.”   
  
  
  
Relieved, Adrienne relaxed and accepted the hug, not realizing how much she had actually needed it. When Mike pulled away he looked around briefly, “Where are the boys?”  
  
  
  
Adrienne wiped at her eyes, “They’re asleep in the car. Could you- ?” She held her keys up and Mike nodded, taking them, “Don’t worry.”   
  
  
  
“Oh!” Suddenly her hands were on his face, “What happened?”   
  
  
  
Mike gently removed her hands, “Like I said, don’t worry about it. If it weren’t for your husband it would be a lot worse.” He smiled softly and raised the keys to signal he’d go out and check on her sons, “Go see him.”   
  
  
  
She nodded before Mike left her and Dr. Monnitoff was guiding her to the room. He was saying something to her but she wasn’t listening. She needed to see her husband.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
 _A monster._  
  
  
  
Mike fiddles with the cast on his hand, idly tracing the letters Tré had written there yesterday.   
  
  
  
 _It’s a monster with a fountain pouring from its mouth._    
  
  
  
He can feel Billie watching him, he doesn’t dare look up. The creature still haunting him.  
  
  
  
 _Black liquid spilling down its chest,_    
  
  
  
“Mike.”  
  
  
  
 _…rippling and glimmering in the light._  
  
  
  
“Do you think I did the right thing?”  
  
  
  
There’s a tremor in his voice and Mike is forced to look up. He sees moss colored eyes, shiny beneath a layer of tears.  
  
  
  
 _It looks at Mike with twinkling green eyes and it shushes him, a finger poised at it’s inky mouth._  
  
  
  
Mike shakes the vision out of his thoughts and moves to sit next to his friend. He has to stop seeing Billie like that.  
  
  
  
“Bill, you saved my life.”  
  
  
  
“You didn’t answer me.”  
  
  
  
“Do I think you did the right thing? Yes, yes I think you did. He deserved it, and we deserve to be free of him.”  
  
  
  
“But, Mike.” His name comes out breathy and wet on Billie’s tongue, “I don’t feel bad…I don’t even feel bad for ki…killing a man.” Tears drip freely down Billie’s cheeks and he says, “How could that make me a good person?”  
  
  
  
“I’ll tell you how, because  _I_  know you’re a good person Bill. That’s how.”  
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Geoff Morrison was found dead at the cabin. The fort-eight year old kidnapper had died from blood loss. A stab wound, a screwdriver to the neck; at least that’s what the CSI team put on record. The truth of the matter was Morrison’s body had been mutilated, the left ear had been bitten off and his eyes had been forcibly crushed in.   
  
  
  
It was a sight and smell Harvey Kaplan would never forget. But neither was the sight of Billie Joe Armstrong, at long last found, curled protectively over an unconscious Mike Dirnt.  
  
  
  
They had been taken to the hospital straight away.  
  
  
  
  
  
Later Officer Harvey Kaplan would sit in a hospital room with Billie Joe Armstrong and listen to him speak aloud the gory details of how he’d killed another human being.  
  
  
  
He would listen as the lead singer told him that he could still taste the man’s blood on his tongue, still feel his pulse fade beneath his fingers, still hear the man’s shrill voice, laced with fear screaming at him for his own life.   
  
  
  
Harvey would hear Billie tell him that he still feels the same anger and hatred toward the man now as he did when he killed him and that he would kill him all over again in a heartbeat.  
  
  
  
And Harvey won't bat an eye at that statement. He won't worry that Billie will kill again. He'll walk away when the case is officially closed and he'll go home to his own family and friends - understanding completely what it's like to protect your loved ones no matter  _what._


End file.
